


Life in the Light

by Nina_Dances_In_Technicolor (orphan_account)



Series: Pain is So Close to Pleasure [3]
Category: Adam Lambert - Fandom
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe, Caretaking, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-03
Updated: 2012-11-03
Packaged: 2017-11-17 16:06:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/553392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Nina_Dances_In_Technicolor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes four years, but someone finally slips, and Brad has to make a decision.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life in the Light

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written back in 2010, and as a result, was sadly outdated as a futurefic. Some references (like Cam still being Adam's keyboardist, instead of Brian) I have edited, because whether Adam was dating Brad or Sauli would not affect those things. Other things, however (like the title of Adam's second album being _No Excuses_ instead of _Trespassing_ ), have remained the same, because a change in the course of Adam's life would necessarily alter those things. Adam would not write a song called "Broken English" for Brad, for example.
> 
> And simply because this was written shortly after Front Men and long before Brad proved his chops with Husbands, I also heavily edited Brad's career. This new version assumes that Husbands took off like a bat out of hell after its first online season; within the timeline, it'd be in the middle of its first full NBC Online-sponsored season at the point this fic is taking place.
> 
>  
> 
> You need to live your life in the light  
> I know how it goes  
> I'll make it right and ease your mind  
> When you take off your clothes  
> Your secret is safe with me  
> There's no need to be exposed  
> We'll keep it down low
> 
> \--"[Down Low](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZLDJ_sxE0CA)," Cheeks

"—he sick?"

"He looks tired."

"I hope he's okay."

Brad watches the stage, more than concerned. The fans around him don't know Adam the way he does, have never felt the planes of his bare shoulderblades beneath their hands in a moment of passion or worked the tiny tensions out of his face with a fingertip massage, but even they can see something isn't right. The crew—now expanded by another four dancers, a new bassist to take Tommy's place when he moved up to guitar, and backup along with a whole host of new backstage help—can see even more, which is why Brad got a phone call four days ago from Tommy, a phone call that started with those three words Brad always dreads: _It's about Adam._ Adam not keeping down food, his usually sweet demeanour transformed into a bitchy, stalking brooder even Brooke can't talk to; Adam not sleeping, pacing the bus in the middle of the night until even Brian and Dawnie come awake. 

Adam drinking his way into unconsciousness at least once, something Brad knows Adam hates doing because he's afraid of not just passing out but _blacking_ out, and hearing from Tommy about finding Adam sprawled facedown on his bed with a killed bottle of Jack Daniel's in one hand is what really twisted the knife already speared through Brad's heart.

Summer is so not the time to be looking for short-notice plane tickets from LA to Atlanta, but Brad managed to get one somehow, and now here he is, sitting in Adam's audience by virtue of a highway-robbery scalped ticket he bought on eBay at the last possible minute. Watching him, Brad—who can see the most, the clearest, of all—can only wonder how Adam is even staying on his feet; even stage makeup can't entirely hide the circles under his eyes, and nothing in the world can hide the weight he's lost. 

_He looks like he did right after the breakup._

The thought makes Brad wince. It's seven years and a reunion—a really _really incredible_ reunion—in the past, and both of them have long since realised that if not for that first break they'd almost certainly be not just broken up but not speaking at all now, but there are memories of those years they spent apart from each other that still put tiny hurts in Brad's heart to think about.

The hurt he feels now has nothing to do with the breakup, though, and everything to do with watching _Adam_ hurt, something as yet unknown leaving him in enough pain that he's subsisting on force-fed multivitamins and trying not to stumble when he leaves the stage before encore. And this is why Tommy called him, why Brad and not Leila is the one in this seat: _Look,_ he'd said, after he told Brad that his sweet, crazy boy wasn't breaking any rules, just slowly killing himself with alcohol and anxiety, _I'm not gonna pretend I understand what the fuck it is you two do. I think it's batshit. But he needs you here to straighten him out. Whatever it is he's into, I don't think he can fix it on his own._

Brad has the horrible sinking feeling, looking at the new, sharper edges and angles of Adam's jaw, that he might know what Adam's been into. It's one of the rules he insisted on when their relationship took this strange but somehow beneficial turn, Brad looking out for Adam instead of the other way around: _I know you haven't been purging for a couple of years. I'm proud of you. But no addiction or obsession ever gets cured, Adam. All you can do is put them to sleep. And I'm telling you, no matter how much you want to say you're fine and nothing's going to happen, that I want you to call me first if that obsession ever wakes up again. That's a rule._ A rule nobody else knows about, even Tommy, because Adam refuses to be defined by this just as much as he refuses to be defined by his sexuality. A rule that would be so easy for Adam to break with nobody the wiser, if he wanted to. 

A rule that, if broken, would explain those angles, those circles under Adam's eyes, the sudden dip of his waist that wasn't there when Brad last saw him in person six weeks ago. A rule that would explain Adam's sudden inability to keep down even the lightest and blandest of foods, but lack of chills or fever.

He stays long enough to hear Adam start up "December Boy," one of the should-have-been singles from the second album (they're rid of _that_ shit, at least, Brad thinks, and with the new label there are always bonus tracks and re-releases to get stuff on the radio), and then he ducks out of the row with his borrowed hoodie pulled far over his face. He's seen all he needs to see.

\--------------------

Brad is quiet as Neil drives him back to the hotel, trying to process what he saw onstage, put it together with what he's heard from Tommy and Dawnie and Reyna and Michael and Neil and Brooke. Adam left LA, if unhappy to be leaving Brad behind, at least calm and balanced and his usual brand of golden-retriever-enthusiastic to be meeting fans and putting his material out there. Now, only a month and a half into what's nominally a ten-month tour almost certain to morph into two years, he's wilted like a trampled flower. The big question, the one Brad came here to answer, is very short: _Why?_ And can it be fixed? That, though, isn't really a question at all: Brad _must_ fix it. And not just because a total nervous breakdown could be the end of Adam's career—because it's _Adam_ , and whatever some of the fans might think if they knew Adam wasn't really single, Brad isn't in it for his money or his connections. If Adam crashes and burns, Brad will never forgive himself.

He grabs his bag from where he stashed it in Neil's room earlier in the day, calls room service, changes out of his concert clothes into fresh jeans and a shirt he knows Adam likes, fixes his hoodie-hair with his fingers. He's going for a very specific look here—relaxed, calm, reassuring, safe. Brad turning up unexpectedly in Adam's hotel room is going to be stressful for Adam. Brad doesn't need to make it worse.

He's waiting on Adam's bed with a small bowl of fruit from room service when Adam comes in, jacket thrown listlessly over his shoulder. With his makeup off he looks even worse than he did onstage—the circles under his eyes are more pronounced, his freckles standing out sharply against too-pale skin. Then he spots Brad, and goes from pale to outright ashen.

"Hi."

"Hey," Brad greets him, trying for concerned but cheerful. "Good show tonight."

Adam blinks in surprise. "You were there?"

Brad smiles. "Surprise." He lets the smile fade. "You don't look so hot, babydoll."

He can see Adam wanting to say he's fine, wanting to let the control freak come out, and Brad is ready to ask Adam if he really thinks he can get away with that when Adam buries his face in his hands and shakes his head.

"Come sit here, babydoll." Brad pats the bed. Adam slinks over, head down, shoulders in, and Brad frowns. It's not an Adam posture, and he doesn't like it. There's none of Adam's usual confidence, the kind just a little too sweet and self-oblivious to be arrogance, in the way he's holding himself. Adam sits, and Brad holds up a piece of apple—something not too strong to start, he thinks. Adam needs desperately to eat, if Tommy's story is true, and Brad needs to unravel this trouble. Getting Adam sick in the first five minutes is going to be counterproductive at best. 

Adam nibbles the slice of apple from Brad's hand, and Brad thinks back to when they first started all this, when Adam fought and tried to exert control over scenes he had no business trying to control. Now Adam has trust, and his slide into headspace is usually smooth and easy—but he's not going now, holding back the way he did after he started to realise Brad would take care of him but before he could let himself be completely unafraid. Brad pulls Adam's head down to his shoulder.

"What's going on, babydoll?" he asks. "Tommy said you've been so good, but you look so sick. Why?"

Adam squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. Brad squeezes the back of his neck. "Adam."

Adam burrows into Brad's neck. Brad feels tears on his skin and squeezes harder. "Adam. Talk to me."

Adam mumbles something against Brad's neck that he feels more than hears, Adam's breath tickling where his lips brush the skin, and Brad lets go of his neck.

"Good, babydoll," Brad praises, and runs his fingers through Adam's hair. Getting rough with him right now is only going to be counterproductive. "Now could you repeat that so I can actually hear you?"

This time he hears a whimper, at least, and wonders if Adam really has been breaking one of the big rules, something that's such a big deal he's afraid to admit it now lest Brad get truly angry instead of punishing him in-scene. "Adam, I need you to talk to me. I promise I'm not going to get mad. But if you don't I'm going to take off this belt, and—"

"We were in InTouch," Adam spits out, and it's Brad's turn to blink at the room. 

"Babydoll, they take a guess at who you're dating or not at least once a month," Brad points out. "Next week we'll be on the outs and you'll be taking a secretly bisexual Leonardo DiCaprio on an exotic vacation to get nude rubdowns in the Bahamas."

Adam shakes his head violently against Brad's neck, and Brad runs his fingers into Adam's hair to hold his head in place, face away from Brad's shoulder. Then he holds up another piece of apple to Adam's lips. Adam takes a single tiny bite and makes an uncomfortable noise.

"What do you mean, no?" Brad asks, and Adam pulls away with a look on his face that suggests he's going to be sick. He reaches for his bag and pulls out a rolled-up magazine with his face on the cover. Brad takes it from his hand, and it falls open of its own accord to a full-page article titled "Adam Lambert: Not So Single?" Brad starts to roll his eyes. Then he freezes as his eyes light on the first paragraph. Next to him, he can feel Adam covering his face and hunching over again.

_Adam Lambert and Bradley "Cheeks" Bell, star of the NBC Online sitcom _Husbands_ , were spotted getting up close and personal last week at a party in Hollywood hotspot The Viper Room . . . _

There are pictures, pictures from a friend's birthday party that was supposed to be in a private room specifically to keep the fame-mosquitoes away.

Their faces are both visible, clearly defined in a flash from a strobe light.

They're kissing—eyes closed, lips parted, Adam's hand in Brad's hair and Brad's on the back of Adam's neck.

And suddenly it all makes a horrible kind of sense.

 _I don't want my name attached to yours for professional reasons,_ Brad said, during those first days when they took up together again four years ago. _I'm not ashamed of you. Or us. But I have to do this on my own. If you can't promise that, then I can't do this._

It's the one rule that's not just big, but outright unbreakable. 

And now it's broken, and Adam is terrified Brad is going to leave.

_So? Why don't you? Rules have consequences. He knew what would happen._

Except . . . 

Except Tommy. Calling him, trusting him to do what's right by Adam even if he doesn't understand. Except Neil, who knows absolutely nothing about their relationship in the bedroom but knows and has confided in Brad that sometimes their relationship outside it is what keeps Adam going when shit flies, as shit inevitably does in this business. 

Except _Adam_ , who stuck with Brad when _Front Men_ flopped and stayed quietly in the background, not pushing to go public, after _Husbands_ got picked up by NBC and became their number-one Internet-exclusive show and made Brad, if not a household name, a known quantity. Adam, who relied on Brad's support when 19 dropped him and who lit up like a kid on Christmas when Brad brought home a bottle of wine to celebrate the night Virgin snatched him up and made him one of their front-line artists—Adam, who celebrated the Virgin re-release of _For Your Entertainment_ and _No Excuses_ by cranking up Mika on the stereo and dancing around his living room with Brad in work jeans and socks, bottles of Corona in their free hands and nachos on the counter they settled down to eat only when they were both too tired to move.

_And you'll never know if you made it because you've got what it takes or because you're dating an It Boy._

Except they've been through hell and high tides in these almost four years, Adam's dad in hospital for abdominal pain (that turned out to be just his appendix, praise whatever applicable deity arranged that) and Brad's sister coming to LA with two newborn babies in tow and no daddy in sight, Adam's two Grammys and Brad presenting on the Emmys, two new tours for Adam and a road trip for Brad after his mother came down with double pneumonia. 

_Does it matter? Really, does it matter? If people think you're that horrible, they won't go for your product no matter who you're dating. Look at K-Fed._

Except it would have been so easy, so very easy, for Adam to bolt when Brad said he wanted more control over their relationship, when Brad damned near had a breakdown after he had to choose between NBC and VH1 and almost ended up caught broadside between two shows he considered his babies, when half the world decided it wanted in Adam's pants and he could literally have had just about any boy he wanted, and instead he stayed by Brad's side. _Do you ever wonder what it'd be like to take a fan up on it?_ Brad asked him once, and Adam's answer was almost enough to make Brad kiss him senseless on the spot: _Should I?_

_But—_

Except Brad is so very in love with this man.

Brad closes the magazine and looks at the picture on the cover—a shot of Adam with a glass in his hand, talking to someone out of frame—no, not out of frame, hidden by a jut of wall. Adam laughing. Not knowing the person with the camera he can't see is in the process of turning his life upside down. Blissfully unaware that someone is intruding on even this, his most intimate private moments, in a way that will leave him anxious and heartsick until he can't eat for the worry twisting around inside of him.

Then Brad turns the magazine on its side and tears it crosswise, making short work of the cover with its salacious headlines and sensational promises, the stories more fiction than fact, the invasions of basic privacy, and tosses the two halves at the trashcan. One goes in. The other flops over the edge and dangles there. Brad nods once, satisfied, and looks up at Adam—Adam, who's already planted his hands on the wall above the headboard, waiting for Brad to make good on his threat, draw the belt he wore specifically for this purpose, and lay into Adam's back. 

Adam's eyes are squeezed shut, his shoulders trembling. He's not into headspace at all, Brad realises. He's bracing for it to hurt, bracing to not scream when the leather meets his skin. He's too afraid to let go the way he needs to let go.

And why?

Brad knows.

He slips the buckle on his belt, pulls it out of the loops, folds his legs up onto the bed. "Babydoll."

Nothing.

"Adam, look at me."

Adam turns—slow, reluctant, and Brad could scream at himself, he really could. Instead he holds the folded belt out in one hand, the back of his hand up, waiting for Adam to hold out his hands to take it. But there's only a look of blank confusion overlaid with the first thin traces of panic, and Brad has to tell him to take it before Adam will do it. Now, he knows, he has to act quickly; the belt in Adam's hands is plain leather, no embroidery or beads or little metal decorative pieces, because Brad bought it specifically for surprise stops along Adam's tour route, and the embarrassment of "random baggage examinations" aside it's almost impossible to get things like crops and bondage cuffs through security without getting strip-searched and interrogated these days. Putting it in Adam's hands is exactly the same as handing him a lash or a paddle, and Brad knows exactly what Adam will think of that right now—and so as soon as Adam's fingers are folded around it, Brad puts his hands on top.

"I made a mistake," he says. Adam starts to shake his head. "Adam."

Adam stops. Brad takes his hands off the belt. "I promised you when I became your Dom that I'd never make a rule that wasn't for your own protection," Brad tells him, and he's sure Adam remembers, but he wants what he's saying to be perfectly clear. "The only rule we agreed on that had nothing to do with keeping you safe was the no boys offstage rule. But I let my pride get in the way of what you need, and I set a rule that wasn't fair." He sits back, not entirely sure Adam is on his page yet but at least confident Adam knows Brad isn't about to bolt out the door. "You've spent an entire week sick because I broke my promise. I put you in trouble instead of keeping you out of it. And just because I'm your Dom doesn't mean I don't have consequences too."

Adam shakes his head violently—almost frantically, Brad thinks, and he leans forward to put his hands on either side of Adam's face. "Have you ever read _The Story of O_ , babydoll?"

Brad doesn't need to hear the whispered "no" to know the answer; Adam and books get along like cats and cream, but the kind of violent philosophy this particular book has to offer wouldn't appeal to him.

"It's about a woman who's a submissive," Brad tells him. "By the end of the book she's lost so much of her own identity that she's about to get off on getting snuffed out by a bunch of strangers because that's what her Dom wants. And that's not what I want for you, babydoll." He pulls Adam into his arms and reaches absently for a cube of cantaloupe, holds it up for Adam to nibble. "I want you to know you can always say no. I want you to be _you_. I don't want to put a muzzle on that." He rubs his cheek against Adam's shoulder, the highest part of him Brad can reach easily from the position he's sitting in. "And that means you have as much right to call me out on a broken promise as I have to call you out on a broken rule."

"I . . . no," Adam says, and pulls out of Brad's arms. "I don't want—"

He glances down at the belt, and Brad doesn't need him to finish his thought aloud to know what it is: Adam likes having this one thing where he's not in charge. Sometimes they go in as equals, sometimes they go in with Brad in charge and Adam following, but Adam's never had to lead the way since the day they started having sex again, and he's come to like it that way. And now Brad is asking him to change that, if only for these few minutes, because this weekend is going to be the last they ever have like this, and if Brad is walking into the future by Adam's side for the world to see then Adam must know that their trust for each other is mutual—mutual, and absolute.

"Adam," Brad answers, catching his glance and making him look. Adam drops his gaze to the belt on the bed between them. Then he raises it again, and his voice is trembling but clear.

"I forgive you."

Brad smiles at him. "Thank you." Then he gets to his knees to kiss Adam's forehead. "I love you, babydoll." He looks down into Adam's eyes, then sits back and kisses the side of Adam's neck. "I'm so proud of you. I know it's hard to be good all by yourself this long."

Adam goes not limp but _loose_ , like a marionette with slack in its strings, and Brad smiles against his neck. Adam isn't into his headspace—not yet—but, Brad thinks, he can go now. If Brad is careful, they can get through this without having to shoehorn a messy, stressful discussion into the middle. Brad can take care of him tonight and tomorrow, when Adam is no longer wound more tightly than an old clock, they can talk about how very drastically their lives are going to change come Tuesday, when hiding will cease to be an option. Good; very good.

"I think you deserve a reward for that," Brad tells him. "But let's get you back on your feet first. Will you eat some of this for me?" he asks, finds a slice of some kind of melon in the dish of fruit, holds it up. Adam nibbles at it. Juice runs down Brad's fingers, and Adam chases it with his tongue. Brad holds back a shiver. Tomorrow is time enough to imagine Adam's tongue on him in other places, if they don't get there tonight. Patience needs to be his watchword right now, and so instead of shivering he runs the fingers of his free hand through Adam's hair. "You're so good for me, aren't you?"

Adam nods and licks the last of the melon juice from Brad's fingers. Brad reaches over and finds a section of orange already peeled of its inner skin, holds it up. This time Adam bites into it instead of nibbling, and Brad feels a rush of pride. "I knew you could do it, babydoll," he says, and Adam rests his head against Brad's hand.

"I just didn't want . . . "

Adam's face twitches, and Brad strokes his hair again. "Shh. I know." A slice of kiwi. "It's over, babydoll. It's all right. Now be good for me and eat."

Adam obeys, nibbling his way steadily through half the bowl of fruit pieces before drawing back and shaking his head. Brad considers the abuse Adam's put himself through in the last week and puts down the piece of pineapple in his hand. "Do you know how good it is to see you behaving for me?" He strokes Adam's hair. "I'm so proud of you."

Brad considers his options as Adam looks down at him. That he wants to finish this scene, if they can, is beyond question; he wants Adam to be secure in the idea that tonight isn't the end. But Adam is exhausted both physically and emotionally, and that limits what they can do to what Brad thinks Adam can handle without his stomach rebelling or his strength giving out. Brad wishes, in a kind of far-off way, that they had a sling here; it would make his half of this job so much easier. Finally he reaches for Adam's shirt and pulls it off over his head, stripping his own off and pulling Adam into his arms again, kissing and licking at Adam's neck. Adam's breath quickens, and he leans back into Brad's arms. 

Brad kisses his way down to Adam's shoulders, strokes his arms. "Lie down, babydoll."

Adam complies, and Brad snuggles up behind him. "How do you feel?"

There's a long pause before Adam speaks. "Tired."

"Too tired to play?" And this he'll leave to Adam's discretion, not something he normally does, but he hasn't been here to see the beating Adam's put himself through, and while Brad is intimately acquainted with Adam's body—from the places that make him shiver and moan to the ways he can be woken up best and most easily without caffeine—Adam still knows his own body best. 

Adam shakes his head. "No."

Brad kisses his neck again, watches Adam fight a moan. "I'm taking you out for breakfast tomorrow."

Adam snuggles back. "Okay."

Brad licks a stripe up his neck. Adam makes a noise Brad can't entirely identify—it's a positive one, that much he can tell, but the jury's out on whether it's a moan or a gasp—and bares the side of his neck. Brad sets to nibbling there, stripping Adam out of his jeans as he goes. 

It doesn't look like a scene, so far as it goes, and it's only the facade of Adam's compliance that makes it into one—but it's enough, Brad thinks. Adam is relaxing, sinking into the bed and into Brad's arms, calming down from an agonizing week of uncertainty, and as Brad kisses his way around Adam's neck, reaching down to stroke Adam hard, he feels Adam melt against him. 

"You're so good for me, babydoll," he murmurs into Adam's ear. "So pretty when you're being good." He nuzzles Adam's neck, sucks on it just enough to make Adam squirm, searches out Adam's balls to play with. "You make me so proud of you."

Adam leans his head back against Brad's shoulder, and Brad tilts his head to nip and suck at the skin on Adam's neck some more. Adam moans and bares more of his neck. Brad looks down and then pulls away from Adam's neck with a final lick. Adam makes a noise of protest.

"I'll end it this way, if you want," Brad tells him. "But when you're done, we're done for the night. You need your rest." He pauses to let the words sink in. "Is that what you want, babydoll?"

There's a pause, and then Adam shakes his head. "I want _you_."

Brad smiles, turns Adam's head, kisses him, pulls their bodies together, lets Adam work the hem of Brad's shirt out of his jeans and slide a hand beneath to press against his belly. Brad lets go to pull his shirt over his head, then kisses Adam's collarbone—chest—the dip of his stomach below his breastbone—pauses to trace his tongue around the outside edge of Adam's navel. Adam reaches for him to pull him back up, and Brad shakes his head with a smile he hopes doesn't look too rueful.

"Tomorrow, babydoll. Let me take care of you tonight." And Brad lowers his head, shoving himself down on his elbows, to kiss.

Adam gasps and twists his hips off the bed as Brad sucks him in a little at a time, slow, taking his time. All blow jobs are pretty much the same—sure, there are funny little tongue tricks and deep-throating and that kind of thing, but at their root it's always the same, someone's cock in someone else's mouth—but that doesn't mean they have to be _boring_ , and as Brad slides down, letting gravity slide his mouth down and over, he does everything in his power to make it anything _but_ , licking and kissing and looking up over the long expanse of skin between Adam's legs and his chin to see if Adam is watching him.

Adam's not, but Brad keeps looking anyway because it's such a pretty picture, Adam's head tossed to the side and his eyes closed as his hands seek out Brad's hair to stroke, hips rolling in long, almost measured strokes that keep time with the soft sounds coming out of his mouth. If Brad didn't know better, he'd think Adam was asleep and dreaming. He's not—even as Brad thinks it Adam's eyes flutter open, although they're hazy and not really focused on anything—but he's so relaxed Brad's fairly sure he could pull off, climb up to lie beside him, and put him to sleep just by stroking his hair. It's good to see. If he's relaxed that far then he's into his headspace or something like it, where _Brad_ , _good_ , and _too much_ are the only necessary thoughts, and that, Brad thinks, is the best place for him right now. 

With Adam relaxed so far Brad lets himself go too, going from sucking to taking Adam deep and trying not to smile and nip when he hears Adam let out a surprised moan. 

Adam pushes a little at Brad's head, and Brad flicks his tongue against Adam's shaft— _I don't think so._ It's only a few short seconds before Brad is trying to swallow, only partially succeeding and then wiping what remains off his chin. That's one thing he's never going to entirely master, he thinks, as he crawls up the bed to get a tissue he can clean his hands with. Then he lies down alongside Adam and reaches for the covers the staff turned down sometime earlier today. Adam snuggles up against his shoulder.

"Feel better, babydoll?" Brad asks, and Adam nods. Then he opens his eyes, and they widen just a little around the edges.

"I can—"

Brad knows where this one is going, and he shakes his head and puts a finger against Adam's lips. "I guess the fans who are still convinced you and Tommy are on the down-low are going to get a little bit of a shock."

"I don't want you to get hurt."

Brad leans over to kiss him. Then he curls up against Adam's front, head tucked neatly beneath Adam's chin, the way they've always slept. If he doesn't go now, he'll wake up this way anyway. "I don't think it's going to be easy," he answers. "Not after the way some of the people you hang out with got treated just because you held hands or got spotted sitting on each others' laps and things. But it's been four years, that has to count for something." He nuzzles against Adam's breastbone. "And even if it doesn't, I'll be okay as long as we're on the same side."

"I'm always on your side."

Brad smiles. Then he reaches up to stroke Adam's hair. He already sounds sleepy; Brad thinks he'd be more than content tipping Adam right over into a good sleep he dearly needs. "I love you, babydoll."

Adam's arms around his waist tighten—not really clinging, just offering him a kind of love-squeeze. "I love you too."

"No matter what," Brad emphasizes. "No matter what."


End file.
